Where Old Ghosts Meet
by Alasse Faelivrin
Summary: SPOILER Alert for series two episodes 12 and 13. Picks up where the finale left off. Guy/Marian, Guy/Allan friendship. Note: I did leave the ending a bit open, so we'll see what series three brings...
1. Chapter 1

Title: Where Old Ghosts Meet

Fandom: Robin Hood (BBC)

Pairing: Guy/Marian Guy/Allan friendship

Summary: Following the events in Episodes 212 and 213. SPOILERS!!

_On a quiet street where old ghosts meet_

_I see her walking now_

_Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow_

_That I had woo'd not as I should_

_A creature made of clay_

_When the angel woos the clay he'd lose_

_His wings at the dawn of day_

_ Patrick Kavanaugh_

"Enough." Vasey, Sheriff of Nottingham stood in the doorway of the tiny guest house bedroom, arms folded across his chest. He rocked back and forth on his heels, watching for a reaction from the figure before him. None was forthcoming. "Enough," he repeated, stepping into the room.

He wrinkled his nose immediately as the odors of sweat and sour wine assailed his nostrils. Waving a hand in in front of his face, he approached the bed.

Sir Guy of Gisborne lay on the bed, curled on his side with his back to the door. A blanket was draped over his lower half, dangling perilously close to the floor. All that was truly visible of him was his black clad shoulders and mop of oily black hair. The shoulders looked suspiciously as though they were trembling.

"Pathetic," Vasey muttered. "Absolutely pathetic." Louder, he said "Gisborne, enough. We have been here three days. Three days in this tiny stinking hole of an inn. I have no wish to live out the remainder of my days here in Acre. Tomorrow at first light we are getting on that boat and setting sail for England. If I have to," he paused and regarded the other man's size. "Have a stable hand carry you on board, I will."

There was still no response. Letting out a snort of frustration, Vasey strode forward and grabbed Guy's shoulder, giving it a rough shake. The blanket drooped even further toward the floor, and he saw the growing collection of wine skins on the other side of the bed. He curled his lip in disgust and shook Gisborne again.

"Leave me alone." Gisborne's voice might have been intended to be a growl, but it came out sounding rather more like a sob. He hunched further into the bed, pulling away from the sheriff's hand.

"Fine." Vasey withdrew his hand, wiping it dramatically on his tunic. "First light, Gisborne. Walk, or be carried. Your choice."

Gisborne held his breath until the sheriff's footsteps faded from his hearing, then let it out in one long slow shuddering gasp. He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the dingy clay ceiling. The shadows coming in through the tiny window slats, and the sounds of the animals in the stable below told him that it was early evening. He'd slept most of the day. Slept was an exaggeration, actually. He'd passed the day in a drunken stupor, the way he'd passed each day since he'd rode away on the back of Vasey's horse. Away from the dying woman, and her lover.

He groaned helplessly, and rolled back onto his side, fumbling frantically with one hand for a wineskin that was not empty. Marian was gone. More than that, the idea of Marian was gone. She'd never really cared for him, but had played him for the fool every step of the way, until that final moment when she'd brazenly laughed in his face, telling him she would rather die than be with him. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard her gasp as his sword thrust home, felt the hot blood pumping over his fingers.

"Oh, God." It was almost a prayer. His fingers felt twice their normal thickness as they found a skin that sloshed promisingly. Pulling it up, he tilted his head back and upended the skin over his mouth, splashing some of the wine down his stubble covered chin and under the collar of his filthy shirt. The wine tasted like ashes in his mouth.

His world had turned to ash. He gulped harder at the wine, seeking the welcome of oblivion.

OoOoOo

"You killed me." There was no anger in her voice, just a cool statement of fact. She floated above him, ethereal and luminescent, her hair streaming out from her face to blow about about her shoulders as if there were a wind. Her white dress flowed as well as if a breeze moved it to shape and cling to her body. The white silk glowed in the moonlight, its color spoiled only by the dark scarlet rose spreading out from the point where his sword had pierced it. The sword was gone, but the rose remained.

"I'm sorry." There it was, out in the open. He'd regretted his action the second it had been too late. The white hot rage had vanished as quickly as it had come, but the fatal blow had already been dealt, and there was no way he could take it back. Or could he?

"I'm sorry," he repeated, knowing how lame it sounded, and yet so true. He stared at her face, smooth and perfect above him as she calmly stared back. She would forgive him, surely? Everything would be all right again. "I didn't mean it. Marian," he reached out his hand to stroke her porcelain cheek.

His hand passed through a wisp of ice cold air. "No, Guy," her voice was clear and firm even as she floated higher, fading, becoming translucent. "You may not touch me. Ever again."

"Marian please," he pulled his hand back, hoping it would bring her closer again. His fingers curled against his palm, imagining there were smaller, more slender fingers clasped inside them. "Everything I've done, it was all for you."

"For me," she repeated. "You burned down my home, for me. You tried to kill the king, for me. You ran me through with a sword and left me to die in the sand, for me." Again there was no anger in her cool voice.

"Yes. No." Guy rubbed his fingers across his forehead. He so desperately wanted her to understand, and yet right now he could not put anything into words that made sense.

She shook her head. "You want me to understand," she said, her voice becoming very soft as she echoed his thoughts. "And yet you understand so little." Her form started to spread, he could see straight through her as if she were a cloud, a vapor, fading from view.

"No, Marian, come back. Please." But he was staring only at a dark wall, alone.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Guy stared at the ceiling above him. Funny, the clay looked more like wood. The wood lurched, as did the bed beneath him. Lurched upward and then back down. Guy groaned as the meager contents of his stomach lurched along with it. He sat up, and promptly cracked his head on the ceiling, which was much closer than it looked. Rubbing his head with one hand, he realized that it was not the ceiling after all, but a bunk bed. He grasped the edge and hauled himself carefully to his feet, groaning as the floor pitched beneath him again.

Supporting himself by leaning on the boards of the bunk, and bending his head to avoid the real ceiling which was still low, he carefully made his way to the door which seemed to be swinging in and out with each pitch. He pushed it open, and was met with an icy blast of wet wind. The stinging drops against his face revived him, and blinking, he realized for the first time that he was on a boat. He didn't remember getting on a boat. He didn't remember leaving his bed in the inn for that matter. He did remember Vasey threatening to have him carried onto the ship, and hoped against hope he'd somehow made it of his own volition.

Carefully, he crossed the wet boards of the deck to the rail on the far side. As he gripped the rail and looked down at the dark water, the ship pitched again, and the remnants of sour wine in his stomach made an abrupt exit. It occurred to him, as he stared at the white caps on the black water, that he probably should not be out on deck. He gripped the rail more tightly and leaned further over the edge, mesmerized by the foaming water. The sea spray plastered his hair down thickly onto his forehead and dripped into his eyes. Just a bit further, and the waves would reach up and swallow him, drag him down to the cool, clear depths...

"Exhilarating, is it not?"

He rocked back, staring in the direction of the voice that penetrated the wind. Marian was perched on the rail a few feet from him. She was wearing her night watchman's costume this time, with the vest hitched up to reveal her flat stomach and the matching wounds he'd given her on either side. Her cape and hair streamed out behind her, floating impossibly against the wind. She twirled the mask between her fingers.

"Yes," he answered slowly.

She smiled, and twirled the mask higher, swinging her legs against the railing. She was not actually sitting in it, he saw, but floating a few inches above. Her skin glowed as it had before, though there was scant moonlight. She seemed more solid this time, more real. He reached out his hand.

"No," she floated a short distance away, waggling her fingers in disapproval. He dropped his hand limply to his side.

"Why are you haunting me?" he asked, his eyes drifting from her face to the scars on her body.

"Haunting you?" She floated back, twirling the mask again.

"Isn't that what you are doing? You're dead. You are a ghost." It seemed perfectly logical to Guy, but then he was standing drunk on a deck of ship in a storm somewhere on the Mediterranean sea, having a calm conversation with the woman he had killed. He allowed for the fact that he just might not be thinking clearly.

She cocked her head considering. "You wanted us to be together," she said.

"Yes," he nodded. "But not like this. Marian." He took a step closer, and this time she held her position, as he kept his arms firmly at his side. "I'm sorry," he said again. Could he possibly say it enough? He drew a deep breath for the harder part. "Will you forgive me?"

Her body drifted away from the railing, out over the open sea. Slowly she lowered her legs so that her feet were barely grazing the foaming water. The water seemed to flow through them. She held out her hand, but not close enough to touch. "Come with me," she said. "And we'll be together."

OoOoOo

The mate stood in the sheltered doorway of the main cabin, watching the storm and soothing his unhappy passenger. His main job this night, it seemed was to keep the sheriff of Nottingham away from the captain, so the captain could steer the ship safely through the rough sea. "Look," he said, nudging the sheriff's arm lightly and receiving a dirty look in return. "Your friend is awake."

The sheriff followed his gaze to where a figure dressed in black staggered across the deck, leaned over the rail and proceeded to vomit in to the sea. "Friend is a bit of an exaggeration," the sheriff said.

The mate squinted at the man on the far side of the ship who now seemed to be leaning perilously far over the edge of the rail. "What is he doing?"

The sheriff gave a dramatic sigh. "Not a clue. Fetch him inside before he drowns himself, hmm? There's a good lad." He swept past the mate into the cabin, pulling the door sharply shut behind him.

The mate crossed the treacherously wet deck to join the sheriff's man at the rail. The man was staring intently at a spot just above the side, and appeared to be talking to himself.

"... forgive me." the mate heard as he drew closer. The man began to lean out even further over the edge, lifting himself up slightly.

"Here!" The mate grabbed the man's arm, his fingers sliding in the wet leather. "Watch where you're going!"

Startled, the man slid away from the rail, slumping back against the mate, who grasped his shoulders to steady him. "Don't go," he whispered, continuing to stare out into the waves.

"I'm not going anywhere, my lord," the mate raised his voice above the building wind. "But you should come inside where it's safe." He wedged his hand firmly into the other man's elbow and steered him toward the cabin.

Inside the cabin, he pushed the man toward a chair, which he collapsed into bonelessly, his head drooping forward over his chest. The sheriff looked up from where he was sitting, wine cup in hand, and clicked his teeth "You'd best snap out of this by the time we get to Nottingham, Gisborne," he said.

Gisborne made no reply, only lowered his face to his hands.

"What's wrong with him?" the mate asked, curiously.

The sheriff rolled his eyes and took a sip of wine. "He's mourning a leper."

"A leper?" the mate took a step back, wiping his hands on his pants.

"She had a name." Gisborne's voice was muffled by his hands.

"And which name would that be? Hmm? Liar? Betrayer? Mrs Hood?" Vasey took another sip of wine and waited, but Gisborne did not rise to his bait. Vasey sighed. "Give him some wine," he said, gesturing to the flagon on the table. "He's more amusing when he's passed out."

Still wary about contact with lepers, the mate did as he was told and placed a cup in front of Gisborne, who took it silently and drained it in one gulp.

Vasey sighed dramatically. "This is going to be a long trip."


	3. Chapter 3

Even with the sun shining, Nottinghamshire was quite chilly after the Holy Land. Allan a Dale shivered, and pulled his ratty homespun cloak closer to him, thinking longingly of the padded jerkin and leather cloak he'd been given by Gisborne. The breeze blowing as they exited the trees made the air even cooler. The stone foundations of Knighton Hall stood before them, surrounded by what remained of the bits of charred wood. They had erected a small memorial here to Lord Edward after his death, and now Robin wanted to do the same for Marian.

Robin walked a few feet ahead of them, coming to stop before the first crumbled stone. To the right of the stone was a wooden cross, and Robin stared at it, cradling a small wooden box in his hands. The box contained the ring King Richard had given to them as Marian lay dying, a lock of her hair, and a few other odds and ends they'd later found at camp; all that remained of Marian of Knighton.

As Robin stood, solemnly holding the box, the others shifted their weight from foot to foot uncomfortably.

"Should we be saying a prayer or something?" Much whispered.

Allan scuffed his foot, scattering a pile of ash. "Dunno," he whispered back.

John fixed them both with a glare. "Silence will do," he hissed.

Much flushed, and clasped his hands in front of him in an appropriate gesture of reverence. Allan followed suit, and they stood there, watching their leader. After several minutes passed, the attitude of reverence was starting to wear off and they were back to shifting their weight from foot to foot.

Allan and Much exchanged glances. John continued to stand still as a pillar. Much cleared his throat. "Robin?"

Giving no indication of hearing him, Robin finally moved, kneeling down before the cross. He set the box down onto the ground before it and bowed his head, his shoulders shaking.

Much wrung his hands anxiously. "Should we kneel too?" he whispered. Allan shrugged uncomfortably.

"Djaq would have known what to do," he muttered. Much nodded.

"Shh," John held up a hand. "What's that?"

The distinctive sound of hoof beats grew louder, approaching from the east. With a smooth flick of his wrist, John had his staff spinning before him. Allan reached for the knife at his side, and Much fingered the bow and quiver he was carrying for Robin. Robin did not move. The hoof beats grew closer, and they turned as one.

Around the side of the crumbled foundation came a brown horse, bearing Guy of Gisborne.

Gisborne pulled his horse to an abrupt stop, causing a protesting whinny. He stared at the men. Frozen in place, they stared back. Allan swallowed hard. Gisborne looked terrible. His face was pale and haggard, his hair limp and hanging into his eyes. Several days growth of beard clung to his white cheeks. His eyes met Allan's for a split second before moving to fix on Robin. Gisborne stayed still, waiting.

Now Robin moved. "You dare," he cried, the rest of his words lost in incoherent rage as he shoved himself to his feet and ran full tilt at the man on the horse. The others watched in horror as Gisborne slowly slid down from the horse's back, and stood facing Robin with his hands spread. He carried no weapon that Allan could see. The horse gave a worried sounding nicker, and nudged the back of Gisborne's head.

"You dare to come here, to desecrate this place," Robin was literally shaking as he flung himself at Gisborne, knocking him to the ground. Gisborne offered no resistance. He fell straight back, hitting the ground hard.

"I'll kill you!" Robin screamed. "Like you killed her!"

"Go ahead Hood," he grunted breathlessly as Robin pinned him to the ground. "Put me out of my misery."

Rearing upright, Robin pulled back his arms, jerking Gisborne upright. He raised his hand and smashed his fist down into Guy's face. "Fight me, damn you," he howled, shaking Gisborne violently when the other man merely absorbed the blow. He hit him once more, then closed his hands over Gisborne's throat, tightening them as he continued to shake him.

"Stop!" Allan heard the shout and then realized it was he who had made it.

"Stop," John's deep voice echoed. "There will be no killing. Not here. Not today." He lumbered forward, the others at his heels. Placing a meaty hand on Robin's shoulder, he attempted to pull him off the other man.

Robin struggled away from John, his hands still around Gisborne's throat. Guy's half closed eyes seemed to be fixed at a point just beyond Robin's shoulder. The black knight's lips curled in a smile.

"I'm coming," he whispered, his voice trailing off into a wheeze as his eyes slid shut.

Allan and Much joined with John and the three of them managed to wrestle Robin away from Gisborne. Leaving the other two to deal with Robin, Allan knelt beside Gisborne.

His eyes were closed, but he was breathing shallowly. Dark smudges were forming at his throat, matching the deep smudges below his eyes. An angry cut bled onto his sunken cheek. Allan shook his shoulder lightly and he groaned in response.

"What are we going to do with him?" Allan looked up to meet Much's question. Next to him Robin was still now, John's arms both protectively and restrainingly around his shoulders.

"We do nothing." John answered quietly. He tightened his arm as Robin started to struggle again in protest.

"John's right," Allan said.

"But," Much stared around at all of them in confusion. "It's Gisborne."

"Like John says," Allan nodded toward the bigger man. "Not today. This isn't the time. Can't you see he's ill?" He shook Gisborne again, and the man mumbled something intelligible.

"So we're just going to leave him here?"

Allan shook his head. "I'll take him home," he said softly. "You finish what we came here to do." John gave Much a silencing glare, and nodded at Allan.

Sliding his arm behind Gisborne's shoulders, Allan lifted him to a sitting position, then draped the other man's arms over his shoulder to haul him to his feet. His arms around Gisborne's slender waist, he began the task of getting him up and over the back of the uncharacteristically patient horse. Once he'd got the other man as secure as he could, Allan swung up into the saddle behind him and grasped the rains. As he wheeled the horse around, Robin lifted his head and spoke.

"There will be a reckoning."

Allan gave the horse its head.

As he rode through Locksley village, the villagers watched silently. Locksley Manor was dark and cold, not so much as a guard about. Allan swung down from the horse, and eased Gisborne down after him, trying his best to get the barely conscious man upright. Gisborne was mumbling feverishly, and slumped against him as Allan half carried, half dragged him into the house.

"I'm not being funny," Allan grunted, pushing Gisborne's head away from his face. "But you could really use a bath."

He manhandled Guy up the stairs, into the bedroom, and dumped him unceremoniously onto the bed. As an afterthought he turned him face up. Guy flopped bonelessly onto his back, still breathing shallowly. Blood was drying on his cheek. He opened his eyes, focusing on a point behind Allan's head.

Allan turned to see what Guy was staring so intently at, and seeing nothing but the frame of the wall and door he turned back with a frown. "Guy?"

Guy blinked, and turned his gaze on Allan. "Allan?" he swallowed hard.

"Yeah." Allan folded his arms. "You okay then?"

Guy nodded slowly. "Tired," he explained.

"You wouldn't know what happened to all your servants?"

"Told them to go away." Guy rubbed at his cheek, frowned at the blood on his fingers, and then stretched his arm over his eyes.

"Right." Allan sighed. "I guess I'll see what I can do."


	4. Chapter 4

Guy pushed the door closed behind him, and closed his eyes as he inhaled the steam from the water. He wasn't sure how Allan had managed it, but he seemed to have rounded up the servants Guy had sent away, and persuaded them to do the work of filling the huge wooden tub with hot water, a daunting task on the best of days.

And then even more daunting, Allan had managed to persuade him to leave his bedchamber and come in here. Guy gingerly peeled off his shirt, making a face as he pulled it over his head. Allan did have a point. He was getting pretty ripe. He tossed the shirt to the floor, did the same with his trousers and leggings, and taking a deep breath, stepped over the side of the tub.

As he lowered himself into the water, the breath left his body in a rush. The hot water soaked into his pores, digging into every aching muscle and bone, sucking out the chill he'd felt ever since leaving the Holy Land. He leaned back against the side of the tub, tilting back his head and sinking down until he was submerged to his chin.

He let his body relax, drifting in the water, eyes closed. He wondered vaguely if he would ever have energy again.

Suddenly he jerked upright, banging his head against the wooden tub. Cool fingers were in his hair, massaging soap into his scalp. "Allan, that had better not be you," he sputtered, coughing as some water got into his mouth.

There was a silvery laugh, and Marian floated past him to perch on the rim of the tub facing him. She was dressed in a bathshirt that didn't quite reach her knees, and clung softly to every curve. Her hair was tied back and wrapped in a scarf. Her bare feet trailed in the water but made no ripple.

"How?" Before Guy could finish his thought, soap dripped down into his eyes. Cursing, he ducked his head under to rinse it.

Coming back up, he started to stand, thought better of it and remained mostly submerged, shaking his head to clear the water from his eyes and hair. Marian remained on the rim, watching him with her lips curled in a decidedly mischievous smirk.

"How can you touch me?" he asked, settling back against the edge of the tub and staring at her curiously. "You keep telling me I can't touch you." Experimentally, he raised a foot and nudged her with his toe. His foot went straight through her leg to hit the other side of the tub.

Marian shrugged. "I don't make the rules." She swung her foot out and back in the water, making not a splash. Gisborne watched her.

"Allan can't see you," he said.

"No."

"Can anyone else?" he paused, and then asked very softly, "Can Hood?"

Marian arched an eyebrow. "Are you jealous? For a ghost?"

Guy sighed and rubbed his forehead with his wet fingers. He pinched his fingers together at the top of his nose between his eyes. "I suppose you'd like me to drown myself."

"You wanted us to be together," she said. "You said you would die by my side. Instead, you killed me."

His eyes filled with tears. "If I could take that back..."

Marian shook her head. "When are you going to learn, Guy?" she asked sadly. "That you cannot take things back. You must live with them." She paused. "or not."

"I don't want to die," he whispered. His eyes widened as he realized that was true. "I don't want to die," he repeated in a louder voice. "I want to live."

"Then live." Her form began to fade as he watched, becoming thinner and thinner until it disappeared completely. Guy closed his eyes, letting the tears stream down his cheeks as he sank back into the water.


	5. Chapter 5

Shivering, Gisborne hastily rubbed the threadbare linen cloth over his wet body. He'd stayed in the bath till the water became icy cold and shocked him out of his drowsy reverie. His fingers were shrivelled up like dried apples, his skin was covered in goose flesh, but for the first time in he couldn't remember how long, he was clean.

He shook the water from his hair, and pushed it back from his face. One stubborn lock immediately dropped back into his eyes, and he pushed it aside again in irritation. Giving up on the soaked cloth that looked as though it had serviced several generations of Locksley inhabitants before falling into his possession, he waved his arms a bit, trying to air dry. Giving up completely, he pulled the clothing that had been laid out for him over his damp skin.

Dressed in a loose woolen tunic and leggings, he descended the stairs slowly, marvelling how his muscles ached from disuse. He felt like an old man. As he entered the hall, the warmth of firelight seemed surreal. A pot on the fire was bubbling and as the scent of meat assailed his nostrils, Guy realized he was starving.

The long table was scrubbed smooth and clean. Allan sat at the end, hunched over a bowl. A basket of small loaves of bread and a flagon of wine sat before him. He looked up and grinned as Guy appeared at the bottom of the stairs. "That's better, yeah?" he said around a mouth full of food.

"Better," Guy agreed. Allan vacated his chair, and pulled out one for Guy, yelling toward the kitchens. Guy slid carefully into the seat and took the piece of bread Allan pushed into his hand, gazing at it bemusedly.

A yellow haired serving woman came out of the kitchen with a wooden bowl. She filled the bowl from the pot on the fire, and placed it on the table in from of Gisborne, giving him a wary look and a belated quick curtsey. Guy watched her leave, a frown on his face. He turned back to Allan.

Allan shrugged. "They aren't too happy with you, but I think they'll do as they're told. Sorry the stew is pretty thin on meat, not much left in the storehouse after the army got through with it."

Guy broke off a piece of bread and soaked it in the soup before putting it in his mouth. It tasted like heaven. He chewed slowly, and swallowed. "Why are you doing this?" he asked Allan.

"Doing what?"

"Helping me."

Allan took another piece of bread and swept it around the bottom of his bowl. "I owed you," he said simply. "You were good to me. Aside from the bit of torture that is," he added. "But you gave me money, food, clothes, some power. Even offered to make me a lord. I can't forget that."

Guy took another mouthful of soup and bread.

"Now don't get me wrong," Allan continued, pouring some wine in a cup and nudging it toward Guy. "I agree with Robin on principle, see. This doesn't mean I'm back. But sometimes a man gets cold, and hungry."

Guy took a sip of wine. It was mostly water. "Fair enough," he said quietly. He ate some more stew and Allan sat watching him eat in companionable silence. He waited till Guy had finished the bowl before speaking again.

"There was a message from the sheriff for you earlier," he said apologetically.

Guy drained the cup of watered wine. "What message?"

"He wants you at the castle tomorrow," Allan paused, " 'or else'."

Sighing, Gisborne pushed back his chair and heaved himself to his feet. "Allan," he said, turning back as he reached the stairs. "Take that," he gestured toward the pot of stew, "with you, when you go."

"Don't get me wrong," he added, echoing the boy's earlier words. "I'm not in the habit of feeding outlaws, on principle. It won't happen again."

Allan, already nimbly slipping the leftover bread under his cloak, gave a quick grin and a duck of his head.


	6. Chapter 6

The first rays of sunlight streamed in through the window of his bedroom, disorienting Guy momentarily as he opened his eyes. He'd not seen the sun since the Holy Land, but the bed beneath him, the wooden walls around him were those of Locksley Manor. He was home, such as that was. He'd slept deeply and dreamlessly, but not nearly long enough. He rubbed his aching head and suppressed a groan as he swung himself up and his bare feet made contact with the icy cold floorboards. The sun in England was cold.

He dressed slowly and deliberately, pulling on his boots and gloves, and wrapping his cloak tightly about him. Descending the stairs, he ignored the silent, staring servants and went straight out toward the stables. He drew his breath sharply in the cold dawn air, and watched bemusedly as it turned white before his face as he breathed out.

His horse greeted him with a snort, the breath coming from his nostrils in two distinct puffs. Guy patted the horse lightly on the side of the neck, and leaned against the warm animal for a few moments before swinging himself up onto his back. "Back to work, boy," he murmured, nudging the horse with his knees in the direction of Nottingham castle. Trees and fields passed by in a blur, as he focused his attention to the muddy path before him, hands tangled in both the reigns and the thick black mane of the horse.

The mud turned to worn and chipped cobblestones as he entered the walls of Nottingham town. The horse's hooves clattered sharply on the stone as he nudged the beast reluctantly toward the castle gate. He dismounted at the stables and leaned against the horse again for a moment before handing the reigns off to a yawning groom.

The castle proper was barely stirring, but Guy had been determined to arrive before the sheriff rose. He climbed the stone steps and made his way down the torch lit hallway to the sheriff's meeting room. He pushed open the door and entered, pausing just past the doorway in the empty room. Some breakfast had already been laid out on the wooden table. A basket of bread, a plate of fruit, a flagon of wine. Guy hesitated only a second, then pulled off his gloves. Dropping them on the table, he took a goblet and lifted the flagon.

A hand wrapped around his arm, making him jump. The cup dropped from his hands and clattered to the floor, while wine sloshed onto his sleeve.

"Put the wine down, Guy," a soft voice breathed into his ear before he could turn around. "You don't need it."

"Marian." Swallowing hard, he carefully placed the flagon back on the table as he was bid, and turned to face her. Her cool fingers were still wrapped tightly around his upper arm. She was dressed this time in a low cut filmy gown, which seemed to blow about behind her although there was no wind. Her hair was bound tightly on top of her head, baring the smooth white curve of her neck.

"I thought you went away," he said unsteadily.

"Do you wish me to?" She lifted her hand from his arm.

Guy shut his eyes tightly and drew a deep breath. Did he wish he could take back his actions, and have Marian here with him again? Most certainly. Did he want a ghostly Marian whom no one else could see haunting him for the rest of his days, reminding him of what he'd done? As long as she was there, he could never move on.

Resolving to tell her to leave, to let him be, he opened his eyes. And looked at her. She was so beautiful. His lips moved. "No," he whispered. "Stay. Please." He reached out his hand to touch her and his fingers moved only through the cold air of her image. He snatched them back, curling them into a loose fist.

"As you wish." Marian floated over to the other side of the table, surveying the spread of food as she twirled a lock of hair between her fingers.

"Who are you talking to, Gisborne?" Vasey stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest.

Guy curled his fingers tighter and lowered his hand behind his back. "No one, my lord," he said carefully.

"Hmm." Vasey walked past him, and helped himself to a handful of grapes. He popped them into his mouth one at a time, continuing to study Guy.

Gisborne forced himself to stay still and impassive, suppressing a smile as Marian floated behind the sheriff, making a face.

The sheriff was going on about outlaws and something else. Guy let the words wash past his ears as he watched Marian. She was drifting around now, running her fingers over various objects on the desk, a stone, a scroll, a feather. She looked up, caught Guy's eye, grinned mischievously and floated over to the bird cage.

She poked her fingers in between the gratings of the cage. The small white bird inside the cage hopped back, twittering furiously. Guy raised an eyebrow in interest. So the bird could see Marian, but the sheriff could not. He'd always worried when Marian had misbehaved around Vasey, but there was nothing he could do to her now.

The bird squawked again, and Vasey whirled around, staring at the cage in confusion. Guy could not help himself, he let out a chuckle.

The sheriff whirled back around, glaring at him angrily. "Well, good to see you've recovered yourself, Gisborne," he spat. "Not moping for your lost lady love anymore?"

Marian crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head, mocking the sheriff's indignation. Guy lowered his eyes, doing his best to look contrite.

"Life must go on, my lord," he murmured.

"Quite right, quite right," the sheriff nodded vigorously, hands on his hips. "Well, don't just stand there wasting time then, Gisborne. Get out there, and bring me back Robin Hood."

Marian lifted her head at that, and frowned. Fixing Guy with a meaningful look, she vanished.

Keeping his eyes lowered, Guy bowed his head quickly and turned on his heel, leaving the sheriff's presence. In the corridor, he stopped and leaned back against the stone wall, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He wondered this time if he'd ever see Marian again. For all her knew she was on her way to Sherwood Forest right now to warn Hood. At the thought, his fingers curled into fists at his side.

Pushing away from the wall, he strode down the hall and out of the castle proper, shouting for his horse. He grabbed the reigns from the groom who was no longer yawning and swung himself up onto the horse, digging in his heels at the same time. The horse burst out from the courtyard at a gallop, heading toward the woods.

As the castle and town grew distant behind them, the horse slowed. Guy did not spur him onward again, looking warily about the thickening trees. A twig cracked to his left, and he pulled sharply on the reigns, stopping the horse. "Marian?" he whispered.

Another twig cracked, and between the bushes closest to him he saw a flash of brown. He nudged the horse forward slowly, step by step, until he was almost upon the bush.

"Who's there?" he called suddenly, in as loud a voice as he could muster.

Two heads popped up out of the bush, and for a moment Allan A Dale stood there staring at him, transfixed, one of Hood's other cohorts behind him. Guy's lip curled into a menacing smirk.

"Truce is over," he said. "Better run."

The end.


End file.
